


Walkers Ain't Just White

by humandoodad



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, Post - A Storm of Swords, mid-S4 TWD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humandoodad/pseuds/humandoodad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>All he knows for sure is that he isn't in Georgia.</i> Daryl Dixon wakes up in a strange land and falls in with someone who's almost as lost as he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost

**Author's Note:**

> A What-If Scenario that just wouldn't leave me alone. I have no idea where this is going, so take that under advisement. I'm crap at finishing things, but will at least try to end updates in non-cliffhanger-y points.
> 
> It's doubtful there will be any romance here, but no guarantees!
> 
> Please let me know if you feel I should tick any of those archive warning boxes. I don't think anything is explicit enough to warrant it, but I'm happy to change it.

All he knows for sure is that he isn't in Georgia. Daryl knows the Georgia woods back to front, from the worms in the ground to the bats in the sky at night and this isn't it. Terrain's all wrong with its huge fucking mountains everywhere.

He might not know where he is, but there's plenty of game and he hasn't seen a walker since he woke up beneath a big old tree two days ago with nothing but the clothes on his back and his hunting knife (but not his fucking crossbow, fuck it all to hell). So anyway, that's something at least. He isn't going to starve. He guesses he's been in worse situations all in all. 

He's skinning a squirrel on his second day lost when he hears it-- first sign that he's not the only human in the whole damn world and of course it's some girl sniffling and whimpering. He's more than half tempted to head in the other fucking direction, because lord knows he doesn't need some kid to look out for. 

But then he guesses he’s sort of gotten used to looking out for folks. Jesus.

"You bit?" First things first. The girl startles right out of her skin and turns a pair of big blue eyes on him. She's got a big ol' knife gripped in both hands, but they're shaking and she obviously doesn't know much of anything about using it. No wonder she looks half starved. "You stupid or something? I asked you a question, girl."

"Please-- Stay back. I don't-- I don't wish to harm you." She's definitely not American, if the accent's anything to go by, so there's no help figuring out where he is. No way he hopped over to fucking Europe somehow. No fucking way. 

It isn't likely she has any chance at hurting him, but he guesses he understands trying to pretend like you're dangerous even when it's obvious you're not. Still, he keeps his distance and decides to see what happened if he calls her bluff. "I could kill you five times over before you nicked me with that fancy toadsticker. Answer my question 'fore I decide to gut you and be done with it."

"Please, I don't understand." Her guard lowers as she tries to suss out what he was saying and he takes advantage.

She flinches in a real familiar way when he advances on her, plucking her dagger out of her hand easily and grabbing her by the shoulders. He uses his hold on her to turn her this way and that, looking her over before releasing her with a grunt. He'd seen that kind of flinch on plenty of women. On Carol, on Sophia. And before the walkers too. He was too damn soft on this sort of shit and he knew it.

"What the fuck are you wearing anyway? Look like a fucking princess." He didn't make it to school much as a kid, but he could remember a girl he was sweet on in 3rd grade dressing up like a fairy princess or some shit for Halloween and it looked real similar, he reckons-- except without all the dirt and rips. But dirt and torn clothes is typical enough these days. Her dagger's real fancy too, good and sharp with inlay work in the hilt. Maybe she'd been at some sort of costume party or something when things went to shit and she hadn't had sense to find herself some fucking pants. Beth would have liked her look though. Fucking Beth.

She’s so pale that the dirt on her stands out like war paint against her skin. "No. No, I'm no princess. Just a bastard girl from-- Ironoaks. Recently, at least." Never heard of that place, so that's no help. Probably overrun if she's out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe talking about clothes soothes girls, because she seems to relax a bit, just a little. She's got sense enough to still be wary, but she's stopped panicking at least. "And you?"

"I ain't no princess either," he replies, a little joke to help prove he isn't going to hurt her if she doesn't hurt him. It falls flat like most his jokes do. "You got people gonna be looking for you?" Daryl doubts it, but maybe she's escaping something or maybe her group's just no good at taking care of their own and lost her.

"No." Her eyes slide sideways and he figures that's a lie, but doesn't call her on it just yet. "I-- I'm heading North." 

"What's north?" She'd looked East when she said it, but he's already figured she had no sense of direction. He might not know the country around here, but he can still see the sun.

"I have a cousin working in White Harbor and he says there is work there for me as well."

 _What kind of place has work for people these days_. It’s good a goal as any, though. "You ain't gonna get anywhere on your own, seems to me. Come on." 

It's a stupid thing to do, coming back to his camp and sharing his squirrel and his fire, but it seems like it's a miracle she isn't dead yet and she probably knows it. Even though she's lost, she obviously has some clue where they were in general and that will help them both in the long run. _This one'll be the one I keep safe._ Stupid fucking bastard that he is, he can't just accept all the death on his head.

"You dye your hair for camoflage?" It'd be a smart move, he figures. Her roots are a bright copper-y red and that'd stand out a mile in this country compared to the dark brown she's dyed the rest of her hair.

Her hands fly to her head and she looks up at him with wide, scared eyes. Shit. Talking with folks is such a minefield. "I. I. Yes?" 

"If you just wanted brown hair, say so. I ain't gonna judge," he shrugs. "Name's Daryl, by the way. Who're you?" By the look of her and the way her mouth opens and closes like a gasping catfish, looks like that's not a safe question either. "Fucking hell. I can just keep calling you girl, if you like."

"That's fine. That is, if you truly don't mind-- It's just that I-- I don't like my name."

Daryl figures that's fair enough. Little weird, but he's getting the sense that maybe she's a bit touched.

\------

He is possibly the strangest man that Sansa has ever met. Certainly, she's never heard anyone who speaks as he does. And the way he dresses-- well, she doesn't even recognize some of the fabrics. She'd thought him perhaps one of the mountain tribes at first, but the more she stays in his company, the more she suspects he must be from very far away indeed. He blasphemes to gods she's never heard of before. Across the Narrow Sea at least and perhaps beyond. She is afraid to ask questions lest he ask them back and she has no answers to give. She already suspects he doesn't believe the scant lies she'd fed him when they met.

She isn't sure why he hadn't harmed her. It had seemed her fate was certain when he'd come upon her half starved and utterly lost after her foolhardy flight down from the Eyrie. It was nearly impossible that a man as rough and wild as he was wouldn't cause her untold harm. But instead, he'd fed her and fallen into her company. Men were never what she expected; it was a lesson she needs to remember. _Stupid girl Didn't you learn that well enough from Fath-- Petyr? He was nothing like he seemed._ She shudders. Even thinking his name made her feel unclean now. It was a stupid thing that she'd done, running without proper preparation, but Sansa hadn't been thinking of anything but getting out of his reach.

"Hey! Girl!" Daryl's hushed voice jerks her out of her revery and she looks forward to where he's been scouting ahead. "Cabin up ahead," he murmurs as she catches up with him. He hands her the dagger she'd stolen from Petyr's solar and draws his own long, slightly jagged knife. "Stick close, hear me? And be quiet."

Slowly, they creep up on the small building. Perhaps it belonged to a poacher. Daryl eases the door open, knife held at the ready, and ducks inside. "Got a body." He approaches the corpse slowly. Sansa swallows hard against the bile that rose in her throat, covering her mouth. The man had been dead long enough to stink and the smell was threatening to overwhelm her. Then Daryl prods the body with a toe and chuckles and for whatever reason, that's it. She rushes back out the door and retches.

"Outta my way, here we come." She stumbles aside and he drags the corpse past her. Its heels make shallow trails in the dirt.

"What are you doing?" Her breath was still hitching in her throat. _It's not as though you haven't seen dead men before,_ she scolds herself.

"What, you wanna sleep with him? Get inside, take a look around. I'll get a fire going."

It was only when she smelled cooking flesh that she understands what sort of fire he had meant.

\------

The cabin is like hitting the jackpot so far as Daryl's concerned. Some sort of hunting shack and nobody's looted it at all. It's no crossbow, but he can make due with the longbow he finds and the trapping supplies are all in pretty good shape. There's even some smoked and cured meat and a small garden-- more than half dead, but he digs out some potatoes. 

He's starting to really wonder about this place he woke up in. Like maybe he didn't actually wake up and it's some sort of coma dream. He'd seen that shit happen on his Mama's stories when they'd had a tv for a while growing up. People in comas having whole other lives before waking up to the real one. He wishes he could ask Rick about that. Rick's the only one he knows with coma experience. Everything about the place is just so old fashioned. Even if the walkers drove everyone back a couple centuries in some ways, there'd still been guns. And plastic. There's none of that in the shack. 

Worrying about it isn't going to help him any, but he figures he can ask Girl a couple things anyway. Get his bearings more now that they've got a safe place to bunk down. She's been in her head most of the time they've been together and that keeps her quiet. He knows the look in her eye, respects it. But he also knows that sometimes you gotta talk, even if he's no good at it.

"You know the date?" Time to start ruling some theories out.

She'd just taken a nibble off a piece of venison-- she eats kind of cautious and careful even though he knows she's hungry-- so he waits her out while she chews. "I've lost track of the day, but I believe we are still in the fourth moon."

He puts a check down in his mental 'Not In Fucking Kansas Anymore' column and decides not to bother asking about the year. "You any good at drawing maps?"

"I-- I could try?" 

She's chewing on her lower lip, all unsure, but he figures it's worth a shot so he takes an unfletched arrow shaft from the pile by the table and hands it to her. "Start with whatever landmark you think we're closest to. Coast, roads, rivers, mountains, towns. That sort of shit. Say the door is north. Just scratch it out in the dirt."

He leaves her to it for a bit, organizing things around the place to his liking while he waits. When she looks up at him, he comes over to see what she's come up with. "All right, tell me what's what."

"This is-- this is the Eyrie here, this circle, and the rest of the Vale's behind it, of course. I think we're somewhere around here," she moves her hand over a pretty big area to the west where she's drawn what's most likely a whole bunch of mountains.

"That a river?"

"No, no, that's the High Road. I'm not sure-- I'm not sure where the Bloody Gate would be on it. I can't remember."

Whatever it is, it sounds like something they should be avoiding anyway, so he just nods. "How hard would it be to backtrack back toward this Eyrie place and then head north?"

Her head starts shaking the moment he points at the Eyrie and there's panic in her eyes. "No. No. I can't. I can't go near the Eyrie."

"Dangerous?"

"Yes." She doesn't look inclined to elaborate and he guesses dangerous is dangerous. He won't be able to take her that way no matter what's waiting there, not with the way she reacted.

He squats down to look at the map more closely. "So what was your plan then? 'cause these mountains don't leave a lot of options that ain't east. 'Specially with winter comin'."

Girl sucks in a breath and looks anywhere but at him. "I'm just a stupid girl. I didn't think-- I didn't plan. I don't know."

Hell, she might start crying. "Look," he says quickly. "If we gotta go west, this High Road's our only option that I see from what you drew. It's that or stay here. Could do it, but one thing I've learned is it's better to have people around, even if sometimes they screw ya."

"The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," she murmurs and sucks in another big breath. "Perhaps-- Perhaps we could go back a bit and go to Gulltown." She took up her stick and scratched in some more coastline to the southeast of the Eyrie and circled a spot. "The road would be better, no matter the weather, and probably safer too. From some things, at least."

"How's that going to get us to your cousin?"

"I have a bit of coin." It's a reluctant admission and also more reason to figure he's not home anymore. Who the fuck cared about money where he came from? "There should be a fair number of ships to seek passage on. I'm not sure if it will be enough, but..."

He shrugs. "We can figure it out once we get there."

\------

They run into the men on the fourth day after they leave the hunter's shack. Sansa would have walked right into their midst on her own, but Daryl stops them both with an alert tilt to his head and turns to signal for her silence. He pulls her behind a tree and tells her to stay with a few emphatic hand signs, then draws his knife and slips away. It's all she can do not to grab at him and plead for him not to leave her alone in a silly fit of panic, but she knows better. She knows he must do what he must. And she knows that there's a chance he will betray her.

Sansa draws her dagger and she waits. It feels like an eternity. It feels like no time at all.

"Girl, c'mon!" Her relief is sharp and intense. The sounds of struggle had been so brief that she had been sure she'd have to run and that she was alone again. 

Each of the three corpses that Daryl is piling off to the side of the small camp has an eye stabbed out amongst a variety of other wounds. "Why did you do that? To their eye, I mean." The question comes out of her mouth without her permission and she feels a shiver of fear go down her spine at her stupidity. What did it matter why he did what he did? So long as he didn't do it to her. The words are out now though, so she makes her expression of the sort one might have while asking a cook about a recipe. _Killers have many different recipes for death._ Sansa briefly wonders what the Hound would think of that. He'd probably mock her, but it's true. She's seen many and heard of many more now.

Daryl just looks at her for a moment, then shrugs. "Habit, I guess. Best way to make sure a body's real dead is to get at its brain."

It makes sense in a gruesome sort of way. She nods. "They must be of the mountain tribes. They don't dress like smallfolk or sellswords."

"If you say so." He picks up a discarded sword off the ground and hefts it. For all his skill with killing, it doesn't look natural in his hand. He doesn't hold it with the ease that years of training gave Robb or her father. Perhaps they don't use swords where he's from. She knows he's skilled with his knife-- the evidence is in the blood at her feet-- and the bow he took from the shack, which he practices with nightly. The questions threaten to escape her again, so she bites her lip and busies herself with going through a pack on the ground. 

"Lion. There lions here?" 

Her heart stops in her chest and then starts battering against her ribs. Daryl has pulled a goblet from the pack he was rooting through. It's eerily familiar. She remembers her husband drinking from ones just like it often during their time together. Tyrion had brought some wild men from the Vale with him when he'd returned to King's Landing to be Hand. She remembered the murmurs in court, the complaints and the jeers. These had been Lannister men, perhaps. In a way, at least. Her husband's men.

"Girl?" Her companion sounds concerned and she jerks her gaze to him.

"Only the Lannisters. It's their sigil. They're worse than any real lion. Worse than any beast at all." It's hard to fathom that someone could be wandering in Westeros for any amount of time and not know of the Lannisters. "These men must have... have come into contact with them. Stolen that goblet."

"Think we could sell it then?"

"No. No, we should leave it. Anyone who saw it would know it belonged to their House and not us. They could take us for the thieves."

He tosses the goblet away without another question and Sansa feels a strange surge of pride. He had listened to her advice without question. She might still just be a stupid girl, but this man trusted her judgement in many things. It was an oddly powerful feeling.


	2. Gulltown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make their way to Gulltown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! I still have no real idea where this is going, but I'm happy people are interested in coming along for the ride.

They finally hit a road after a week of walking. It's a damn good thing that one of those mountain men he killed had boots that mostly fit Girl, because the ones she had were already well on their way to falling to pieces when they swapped them. They cobbled together a whole new set of clothes for her from those men and he was kind of fucking shocked that she didn't mind wearing things off dead men. She could be damn prissy sometimes, but when it came down to it, she was practical. And mountain man clothes are a damn sight warmer and more practical than the princess shit she started out with. He'd thought about taking up some of the armor they had on them, but decided in the end that the weight would just throw him off. He did strap a sword to his hip though. He wishes he'd gotten Michonne to show him more of how to use one of those things. Here's hoping he won't have to rely on it.

Girl's anxious about travelling on the road proper, so he puts some distance between it and them before turning east. Every couple days, he settles her in a good hiding spot and goes to check and make sure they're still following it mostly. It's time consuming, but so's getting lost. Girl can use the rest anyway. They've had to take it easy while she recovers from her time alone so she can start gaining stamina instead of just walking herself into the ground. There are a few points along the way where the road's really the only part of the terrain that's passable and those parts of the journey are tense ones for the both of them. He misses his crossbow a lot then.

"Are you from the Free Cities?" Girl's gotten a lot more comfortable with him since he killed those men. Considering how she started, it's not like he'd call them buddies, but it's something. They're sharing a seat on a log, warming their hands by the small, low fire he's got going. Wood's been damp as fuck lately; it took for-fucking-ever.

"Land of the free, home of the brave. Probably not what you're talking about though. I come from a place called Georgia."

"Georgia," she echoes thoughtfully. "That's pretty. I like it."

"Could be pretty when it put its mind to it. Could be damn ugly too." He doesn't know if he misses the place or not. He misses his people, Rick, Carol, Michonne, all of them. He doesn't miss the walkers or the life he had before them too much. 

"Why did you come here?"

"Don't know, really." He doesn't figure he'll ever know. Luckily, he's real good at making his peace with shit he can't control so long as he can still take care of himself. "Just did."

"It's an awful place to be," she murmurs, staring into the fire. "Perhaps-- Perhaps you'd be happier in Braavos."

"What's that?"

"A city across the Narrow Sea. People from everywhere use its port. I think-- I think it's the sort of place where people who have no home could go and find one."

"Not much for cities, really, but I'll keep that in mind once you get to where you're going."

She's quiet long enough after that that he figures they're done talking and picks up a stick to whittle at. But he's wrong. "I don't have a cousin in White Harbor. That was a lie, I'm sorry."

"Didn't hurt me none."

"I don't have any family, except-- a half-brother who is very far away." She's wearing that blank look she gets sometimes.

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. That usually works for him. Either people keep talking or they shut up, it's all on them to choose.

"I don't have anywhere to go." She sighs quietly. "I should just go to Braavos and start a new life. I could find a place there or in another Free City. But... something holds me back."

"If it were me, I'd go find my brother." He hopes hers is better off than Merle was last time he saw him. Thinking about it makes his chest ache. Might be his face is going all blank too.

Girl chews on her lower lip and stares into the fire. "I'll decide what to do next once we get away from the Vale."

Daryl shrugs. It's not like he's got anywhere particular he's got to be.

\------

She limits herself to one question a night, rationing out her curiosity as a reward for each day survived. Daryl is occasionally evasive and often vague, but then she has been as well. The part of Sansa that is still a little girl rather likes the mystery of him, no matter how often she reminds herself that knowing a person is how you have power. Knowing a person is how you protect yourself from them. She may not know very much about Daryl's past, but she likes to think she's getting a sense of the sort of man he is.

Daryl is a man who can be silent comfortably. He is fine going hours without conversation and only speaking upon necessity. When he does speak, it's rarely at length. Sometimes it reminds her of her father in the Godswood, how he sits in the evening doing this or that. Something weighs him down and she wonders what it is, since he seems to have no responsibilities save the ones he's given himself. His past, she supposes. Sometimes it feels like her past will suffocate her.

He's very observant, so much so that it makes her nervous. Occasionally, he'll point things out that indicate an animal he wishes to hunt down for their dinner and it's always something so small and insignificant in her mind. She supposes it's a skill, being able to survive in the wilds, but she worries that he sees things about her as well. 

Sansa certainly would not call him a gracious man. He didn't hesitate to comment on the impracticality of her clothing before she traded the gown for clansman skins and has called her useless on occasion when she didn't know how to light a fire or tie a certain sort of knot. For some reason though, it doesn't much bother her-- perhaps because he's never really _unfair_ , just harsh and blunt. And he always lets her watch what he does so she might learn and become less helpless. She's thinking of using one of her nightly questions to ask him to teach her how to use her dagger in a fight. 

It catches her by surprise when he asks her a question before she can one evening.

"You said here's an awful place to be a while back. Why's that?"

"You've not even heard of the War of the Five Kings?"

"Girl, you go ahead and assume I ain't heard of nothin' 'round here." He smirks ruefully.

It's hard for her to know where to start, but she decides on the death of King Robert and goes on from there. She's careful to remain neutral about everything, speaking of Lord Eddard's death in the same tone as King Robert's or King Renly's. Daryl's never heard of guest right, but is disgusted by the Red Wedding all the same, even though she leaves out most of the worst details. She paints everything with broad strokes-- a land torn apart by complicated politics, too many kings and the onset of winter is really the sum of it, after all.

"So the entire country's a war zone and people are at each other's throats," he summarizes. "Same shit, different day."

Sansa's never heard that turn of phrase before, but it seems apt. _House Daryl, Sigil: A pair of ivory wings on a field of dark charcoal. Words: Same shit, different day._ She lets out a hiccup of a giggle and he squints at her suspiciously before grunting and getting up to go walk the perimeter of their camp. 

\-----

The first time he truly loses his temper, Sansa is entirely caught off guard. Perhaps she shouldn't have been-- it had been three days since he'd had any luck hunting and they were both tired and hungry. Each day that passed, his expression had turned darker and he'd become shorter with her. 

Yet, when he trips over something and she asks "Are you all right?", she doesn't expect him him to level a dark glare at her.

"'course I'm all right," he growls. "I'm _fine_ , fucking _fine_. Stuck out here in the middle of fucking nowhere with a little girl who's got no sense at all. Kill for a cigarette but there ain't any of that in fucking King Arthur land, shit. Don't ask me if I'm fine, Girl. You'll know if I ain't fine 'cause you'll be _dead_." He's been advancing on her as he speaks, but stops there and his mouth twists in an ugly fashion. "Shit. Mother _fuck_!"

Daryl kicks a rock to punctuate his remarks and stalks off into the brush, leaving her standing in place, stunned. Her heart, already beating in a quick staccato rhythm, picks up an even harder pace because he's right. She's dead without him and what if he leaves her? There's naught she can do but hurry after him, afraid to approach but afraid to let him out of her sight. 

When evening comes and he tells her to stop hovering in the shadows and sit, then hands her the larger portion of the rabbit he's cooked for them, he looks quite contrite. His expression rather reminds her of ones her brothers used to wear when her mother would get them to apologize for some mischief they'd done. It almost makes her smile. "I... I've known many men to lose their tempers in less harrowing situations."

It is meant as a comfort, but his frown deepens and he looks away from her. "Yeah. Reckon you have. Look--" He can't seem to find the words he wants, jaw working. "Eat up."

Her thanks are met with an answering grunt and she allows him to fall into a brooding silence as is clearly his desire.

\------

They've started having to skirt around little farms and such. More people on the road as well when Daryl went to scout it out. Could only mean they're getting closer to some sort of population center. He says as much to Girl and watches her pale and wet her lips nervously. It makes him feel like he's walking into something blind and that's a feeling that will make a man twitchy.

"Look," he says. "I know you ain't much for sharin', but I can't do a goddamn thing to help you if I don't know what to expect, you understand?"

Girl picks up a dead leaf and starts shredding it to pieces. "I understand. I-- It would probably be best if we went straight to the docks. And-- avoided anyone bearing livery."

"The hell's livery?" He hates it when she uses weird words and it makes him feel like the stupid hick he is. Probably for the best though, out in the woods, sometimes he forgets since he's the one who knows how to live out there, not her.

"Oh, ah--" She frowns, thinking. "The... colors and symbols of a noble house."

"Well, I don't know if I'll recognize that on sight or whatever, but we'll do our best to avoid 'em between the two of us." 

Girl nods and finishes off the leaf. "I thought perhaps-- your accent is very distinct, you see. So, it might draw less attention if I conducted any negotiations."

He shrugs. "Don't like talking anyhow."

He still feels under-prepared when they enter the town the next day. Girl's changed back into her princess gear and pulled the hood of her cloak up to cover her two-toned hair. Almost immediately, they're surrounded by more people than Daryl's seen in one place in fucking years. He can't say he likes it. People keep bumping into him and yammering in their weird ye olde-y talk, there are folks at stalls yelling at him like barkers at a carnival. It's nearly overwhelming after the quiet of the forest.

"We better find those docks real quick," he mutters to Girl, who nods and slips a hand into the crook of his elbow to lead him along. He lets her do the trailblazing and focuses on watching the crowd for suspicious types. He hopes a man with bad intentions looks pretty much the same here as in Georgia.

They get to the docks but damned if she doesn't march them right up to a weasel of a man who he wouldn't trust as far as he could spit. "Pardon me, are any of these ships going to White Harbor?"

"The Sweet Beth is, aye." Daryl almost smiles. If he were a superstitious man, he'd take that as a sign.

"Thank you very much." Girl nods and passes on, probably not catching the scowl the man sends at her back. Daryl glares at him until the little shit turns away and finds something to busy himself with. "I ought to have given him a coin for his help," Girl says to him, actually sounding a bit guilty, which Daryl thinks is damn stupid. He snorts. 

"We got more important shit to spend your money on."

"Yes, that's what I thought as well. But if you stay in Westeros, you should know that a copper for that sort of help is welcomed."

He snorts again. "What about the sorta help I been giving you, huh?"

She stops to blink up at him. "Oh. I-- Of course, I owe you an unfathomable debt."

It makes him feel all sorts of awkward how solemn she's looking at him. "Shit. You don't gotta-- You been helping me too. Tellin' me about all them kings and all. I figure it'll even out sooner or later."

"If it does not..." She gets a weird expression on her face, with a tiny smile. "I will always pay my debt, I swear to you."


	3. White Harbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sea travel doesn't agree with Daryl, it turns out. But they make it to White Harbor all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the comments and kudos!

"Still don't have his sea legs?" The captain, a Braavosi man by the name of Larro, watches Daryl lean over the side of the ship to cast up his breakfast. "Almost as bad as a Dothraki, that one." Sansa thought Larro probably took a bit more pleasure in poor Daryl's suffering than he might normally since Daryl had gotten a bit hostile when the captain invited Sansa to share his cabin. Sansa had managed to intervene before any real harm had been done and Larro had taken no offense when she declined his offer, but it wasn't likely the two men would ever be friends.

"I thought Dothraki never crossed the Sea." She remembers people saying so at Court when there were rumors of a Targaryen marrying a Dothraki lord spreading from courtier to courtier like wildfire.

"Just so. Not by choice, at least. As slaves? No choice but to come aboard. They say the Mother of Dragons got her Khalasar onto ships though. Must have used them dragons to herd them in." He laughs, apparently amused at the concept.

"Does she truly have dragons?" 

"So they say," the Captain answers. "So they say." He moves away as Daryl heaves himself away from the gunwale and staggers over to sit beside her.

"How much longer we gotta be on this damn tub?" he grumbles.

"As long as the wind stays fair, just another day, perhaps two." She places a hand on top of one of his and squeezes sympathetically. She remembers her illness on the _Merling King_ well enough.

He grunts at her and pulls his hand away. She thinks perhaps the idleness of being a ship's passenger and the close quarters are probably also contributing to his sour mood. He's pulled the piece of wood that he's been whittling on from his pocket and is scowling at it. It may not be coming out as he'd like. It's certainly no shape Sansa can recognize at the moment. She dares not ask what it's meant to be, as she suspects that would set off his temper.

"Mel!" A friendly sailor from the Summer Isles that she'd supped beside last night flashes a bright smile in greeting as he passes them by. She returns his greeting with a smile. Her first instinct had been to keep apart from the crew and stay in the cabin for the entire voyage, but she then thought perhaps that would be more suspicious. Petyr had taught her that people will see what they want to see, so she took her cues from the crew as to how a normal passenger was expected to act.

"'s not really your name, is it?"

Sansa shakes her head. "No, but most people don't simply accept it when you choose to remain nameless. It is as good a name as any."

"Knew a Mel once. Dated my brother for a while. Mel 'n' Merle."

She notes his brother's name on her mental list of facts about her strange companion. "Dated? Is that-- like courting?"

"Guess so, yeah. They broke up first time he got sent to juvie."

Before she can decide whether she wishes to ask him what 'juvie' is, he's heaving to his feet to go back to the side of the ship. It might be for the best.

\------

They arrived in White Harbor only a day later than predicted due to a small storm blowing them off course the night before they were meant to reach harbor. The storm had been a real trial for Daryl, who had cursed her, the ship, the captain and all of Westeros several times over. It would have been frightening had he not been so ill he couldn't stand. But his weakness gave Sansa the opportunity to realize he yelled because he was frightened and trying not to show it. His coarse language and anger were a mask and masks were something she understood. Having realized that, she forgave him easily for calling her a stupid prissy bitch. He would probably feel bad about it later, just as he had on the road to Gulltown after losing his temper.

"Fuuuu-uuuck, I ain't ever getting on one of those things _again_ ," Daryl declares after they make their goodbyes to captain and crew and disembark. He staggers a bit when they get on solid ground, glaring down at the stone below his feet as though it is to blame for his imbalance. Not for the first time, she wonders how in the world he managed to get to Westeros and yet be such a novice to sea travel. The part of her still prone to flights of fancy theorizes perhaps he was drugged for the entire voyage.

"Well, then I suppose you won't be going to Braavos after all," she muses with a smile. 

" _Hell_ no." 

"We shall have to take an inland route north, then." Glancing at him, she bites her lower lip. "That is, if you wish to still accompany me."

He eyes her with a bit of a squint. "You decide where you're going then?"

"I've decided you're right. I want to find my brother."

Daryl nods in what looks like approval. "Good enough for me." 

They find an inn and she makes inquiries about purchasing passage on a river runner to travel up the White Knife (after confirming with Daryl that river travel was acceptable). Sansa's coin is running low, but it is her hope to have just enough to make it to Last Hearth or thereabouts. She is told that the river runners take very few trips now that winter is upon them. It is a disappointment, but not altogether surprising.

"I'm not sure what to do," she tells Daryl as they eat their dinner of thin stew and hard bread in the inn's common room. "It will be a very long and difficult journey by foot, but we cannot afford horses and I'm not sure it's wise to stay here for very long."

Her companion scratches his scruffy jaw and looks to the ceiling as though it might have an answer. "Seems to me--"

His thought is interrupted by a man dressed in the colors of House Manderly who slides onto the bench beside Sansa. His expression is a familiar one and she has to consciously stiffen her spine to keep from shrinking away from the leer. "It's rare to see such a pretty face in a place like this." If she had to guess, she would say that he was a guardsman-- perhaps one who patrols the docks, considering the inn's location. He is definitely in his cups.

"Prob'ly because this place is full of ugly fuckers like you," Daryl comments before she can think of a polite rebuff.

The guardsman stands unsteadily, obviously affronted. The sound the bench makes when Daryl stands as well draws a good deal of attention to the developing scene. "You should find another table to eat at, stranger."

"You gonna make me?"

"There's no need for that," Sansa interjects, rather desperately. "You may have the table, if it please you. We'll go to our room."

"I would rather you stayed and kept me company." The leer is back. "I'd be good company to you in return. This one here's probably picked up every disease from Astapor to Braavos. They don't keep clean like Westerosi men across the sea, you know."

Daryl snorts. "Don't smell real clean to me." Sansa barely has time to register that the drunken man is starting to reach for his sword when Daryl hauls off and punches him, sending him to the ground in a heap. "Might talk kinda fancy, but you can't look down your nose at me, asshole." He kicks the man, making him howl. As he draws his foot back for another kick, another man flies at him from off to the side. Light glints off the blade of a dagger in his hand, signaling that things are truly becoming dangerous. Daryl snarls and grapples with the new attacker while the drunken guardsman staggers to his feet. 

Sansa is reluctant to abandon him, but it has occurred to her that no matter what the result of this brawl is, she will no longer be safe at the inn. There's nothing she can do to aid him in a fight, but she can make ready for their (or her, gods help them) escape. Drawing her dagger, but keeping it at her hip, she slips away from the gathered spectators and makes her way up to their room and their belongings. 

"Out the window." The inn is still in an uproar when he joins her in their room, clothing torn and stained with blood. Her relief that he has come out of the fight in once piece is replaced with confusion, which must show on her face. He huffs and takes the bag out of her hands and strides to the window, throwing it open and tossing the bag out. The rest of their things follow suit. "I'll catch you," he tells her and then he's out the window as well. 

When she goes to the window, she can see that he's lowered himself onto the roof of the stable and his plan becomes clear. It still takes her a moment to convince herself to follow, but he's true to his word and catches her when she's unable to hold onto the sill long enough to lower herself down gently. He gives a low grunt of pain and sets her on her feet.

"I'm sorry!" It's difficult to tell how much of the blood on him is his own, but at the very least, he is bleeding from the brow and the lip, as well as the knuckles. She can think of very few men who could come out of a fight where they were outnumbered completely unscathed. Perhaps only the Hound or some of the knights of old. But that he managed to escape at all is a credit to his considerable skill as a fighter and she says so.

He dismisses her praise with a grunt. "We still gotta get off this roof, c'mon." They repeat the process of throwing down their things and Daryl helping her to the ground, then he ducks into the stable and returns with a horse.

"Are we _stealing_ it?" 

"I just killed a couple men, so yeah, we're fucking stealing a horse." Thankfully, the horse is already saddled, which Sansa would have said was a sign from the gods at one time, but now she rather thinks it is simply very good luck. He wastes no time getting their things strapped down and then mounts and pulls her up in front of him. Sansa has to admit to herself that she's surprised he makes no comment about the inconvenience of her skirts, but perhaps he is simply too focused on their escape.

The ride out of White Harbor is a tense and quiet affair. She expects at any moment that Manderly men will surround them and either kill them on sight or escort them to the dungeons. She wishes she knew whether being Ned Stark's daughter would grant them some clemency, but all the reports she heard of the North while with Petyr indicated that she would not be able to rely upon any lord to still owe allegiance to her family. The only person she can trust is Daryl. He has once again proven that he will not abandon her to her own fate in the face of trouble, though this, perhaps has been trouble of his own making. 

The guards at the city gates ask if they're certain they wish to go out as night sets in, but make no effort beyond that to stop them when Sansa tells them that they are aware of the dangers and still wish to carry on. Word of what has happened at the inn is obviously and thankfully yet to reach them. Once well away from the lights of the gate, Daryl urges the horse to a canter and they leave White Harbor well behind.


	4. Snow in the North

As far as Daryl is concerned, it's a relief to be away from people again. Trust isn't something he's any good at, especially with strangers. And especially in a place where your bar fights involve fucking swords. Their horse is the one good thing to come out of that damn town. 

"Might we name her?" Girl asks, stroking the mare's nose when they stop so he can fill their waterskin from a stream.

"Best not. Might have to eat her if food gets scarce." He looks up from the water in time to see her horrified expression before she schools it to blank and laughs at her. "Game's getting scarce, Girl. That's reality." Winter was coming in a real way. He found it a little comforting, really, that even in this fucking fantasy land, north still meant colder, faster.

"I suppose you're right," she sighs. "It wouldn't do to get attached."

"'Course I'm right."

"If we follow the White Knife northward, perhaps we can eat fish?"

"Don't have anything to fish with and it's too fucking cold to try tickling in the shallows. Might be able to whittle me a spear and try that, if needs be. Get back on the horse, let's keep moving." Both of them riding at once isn't real practical over rough terrain, but with him leading, they still make better time than last time they were hiking around.

Getting on a horse is one of the least graceful things he's ever seen Girl do and it's amusing to him to watch every time she goes up. "You can tickle fish?" Settled on the saddle, she looks down at him with a bright sort of curiosity in her eyes. It's usually the sort of look she gets when she's asking him about Georgia. Maybe they don't tickle fish here in fantasy land. Or, more likely, fancy princess ladies don't have much to do with fishing in general.

"Sure. 's kinda like noodling, 'cept you don't gotta stick your hand in a fish mouth. Give some trout a belly rub 'til it falls asleep in your hand. The trick is getting close enough to the fish to tickle it, 'course." He glances up at her to see how she's taking this new bit of knowledge.

It's nice how she always looks real serious when he talks about shit he knows. Like he's some sort of teacher or something. "I see. Yes, the water would be _much_ too cold for that." Then she smiles a little. "Belly rubs don't put me to sleep."

"Me neither, but we ain't trout. Had a hound growing up that would go right under, though."

She downright giggles at that and he has to look at her with a raised eyebrow because he didn't think it was all that funny. She's chewing on her bottom lip like she regrets the slip. "There was... King Joffrey, the son of the one who was killed by a boar, he had a guard who everyone called the Hound. He was very large and fierce. It-- it struck me as very funny to imagine him taken down by a belly rub is all."

"Knew a man called Hounddog once." One of the bikers Merle ran with for a while there. You could always rely on him to hook you up with some quality smack; if you could really call any of that shit 'quality'. "He wasn't real big, but his face was kind of droopy-like? Like a Bloodhound."

"I don't know what that is, but it sounds frightening."

"Hound with a droopy face, real good at tracking." How the hell do you tell someone what a Bloodhound is?

"I see." He could hear her smiling. "I don't believe I've ever seen such an an animal."

"Not much to see. Ugly fuckers, really. Drool all over everything."

He takes her answering hum as a sign that the conversation can finally end. It's good to see her smile and laugh from time to time, but it doesn't make him any better at talking.

\------

After two weeks of travelling, the snow began to fall and hasn't stopped since. Their progress North slows to a crawl with the horse struggling to wade through the high snowdrifts that spring up nearly overnight. After a few days of struggle, Sansa remembers the bear paw shoes her father's men used to wear when the snows were deep and between her memory and Daryl's general woodsman skills, they fashion a pair each that do the job of keeping them from sinking through the snow. She cannot deny she is proud of their accomplishment.

Even though it's too cold to 'tickle' fish, they follow the White Knife in the same way they followed the roads in the Vale-- mostly at a distance, but occasionally cutting in closer to make sure they hadn't strayed. He's made a spear, and when they are near the river, he makes use of it, though only to limited success. It is lack of fish that stymies him, not lack of skill.

Food is extremely scarce and the both of them are starting to show the effects of their meager diet, as is the horse. After nearly a moon of travel, it injures itself on some snow covered obstacle and Daryl puts it down for good. They're stopped for a day while he skins it and cuts it up. "Least the meat'll freeze and keep real good," he tells her. "Play it smart and she'll feed us for a long time."

Even without a name, Sansa is sad that the poor thing is dead, but her sadness is not as great as her hunger. He is right, with proper rationing, she will feed them a for quite a while. He fashions a crude sled to pull along with all their things packed upon it and their pace doesn't much suffer. He is more tired when they stop, but the sled does not slow them down anymore than the horse in the snow had.

There is a benefit to the snow in that it makes tracking what little game they come across extremely easy for Daryl, so if he does spot the signs of a creature in the area, it is a near certainty that they will eat something beside horse that night.

Eventually, they reach where the White Knife forks and make a terrifying crossing on the uncertain ice that has formed over the river's surface. She knows they could simply keep following the eastern bank of the eastern fork, but that route would take them close to the Dreadfort and that makes her uneasy. Having crossed, they can try to stay far enough away from both Winterfell and the Dreadfort to avoid meeting any Boltons before connecting with the Kingsroad near Long Lake. The land on the west side of the fork is flatter as well, she is fairly certain. She hopes. She wishes she'd paid more attention to such things as a child. Daryl takes her at her word though, so she can only hope she rewards his trust with good information.

It is another moon and half a moon more before they are walking around the shore of Long Lake and making their way onto the Kingsroad as planned. "I can't imagine many people will be travelling in all this snow," she tells Daryl. "It should be safe enough to keep to the road. Or, at least, keep to it as well as the snow will allow."

She was wrong. Boltons come upon them riding North from Winterfell only days after they reach the road and begin their way due North. It is only four men, but they are well armed. Sansa's heart is in her throat and nearly choking her as they demand she and Daryl stop and answer questions.

"Take down your hood, girl," their leader demands straight off. She glances at Daryl, who is glaring at the group, then pushes it back. Her red hair has grown in quite a bit now and the brown dye itself has faded somewhat from the rest of her hair. However, apparently, the men are looking for something different.

"We're looking for a girl, around your age, brown hair. Might be travelling with an ugly shit of a man, lots of scars, skin flayed off his fingers, broken teeth. You seen anyone like that?"

_Skin flayed off his fingers._ She wants to gag, but keeps her face blank. "No, sers, we haven't seen anyone but you on the road."

The men all look at each other. Then one speaks up. "Lord Ramsay might like that one for a bit of fun, don't you think? Might keep him from getting too angry over us not finding the girl, eh?" This idea seems to appeal to his fellows. Beside her, Daryl shifts his weight just a bit. She thinks he must be readying himself to fight or run, but she can't be sure which.

She finds out it is fight when suddenly he's in motion and an arrow has sprouted through the throat of one of the men. The other three shout and draw their swords to charge at him. Another falls to an arrow and then he shoves her aside and draws his hunting dagger. "All right, you sick fucks, let's see what you got." Their swords have longer reach, but he's much quicker on his feet than a man in armor. She scrambles to her feet and flees as quickly as she can in her bear paws. There will be no hiding if they kill Daryl, all she can do is try to put distance between them and hope they don't make chase.

Eventually, she must stop and sink to the ground, exhausted. Whatever the outcome of the fight, it is over by now, surely. And she cannot run any more. All she can do is wait until she's rested enough to move on or someone finds her.

To her immense relief, an extremely bloody Daryl comes over the crest of the hill, pulling their sled behind him. "Jesus, Girl!" he calls as he approaches. "You can fucking book it in them snowshoes!"

She cannot help but laugh. "Are you hurt?"

"Nah, nothing worth speaking of at any rate. And look." He holds up a crossbow with a grin. "Picked it up off one of those fuckers. Ain't what I'm used to, but better than nothin'."

Crossbows will always make her think of Joffrey and she shudders internally. But he looks so pleased with it that she's glad for him. "Those men... they were Bolton men." 

"They were gonna take you off to some Lord of theirs for some sick shit."

"Their sigil is the Flayed Man. The man they spoke of with the flayed fingers, the Boltons must have done that to him."

Daryl shakes his head. "Real nice people you got here in this country, Girl. Real special. Real friendly."

"There used to be nice people. But the monstrous ones have killed them all." She pulls herself to her feet.

"'cept you."

"I'm not so nice."

He snorts. "Sure, Girl. If you say so."

\------

Crossbow's not like the one he had back home, but he can work with it. It feels good to have the weight hanging off his back again. Solid. Right. Girl's eyes go real wide the first time he pulls it back and sets it himself. "What?" he mutters. Sometimes she makes him feel like a freak, which is some bullshit because he's the only normal person he's seen in months by his reckoning.

"Joff-- Someone I knew who favored the crossbow, he used a crank to do that."

"My way's quicker. Your Joff was just a pussy."

A shudder runs over her, violent enough that he can see it. "He wasn't _mine_."

"'Nother one of those special folk you got around?" Seriously, fuckers getting into sword fights in bars, men out hunting for some poor fuck with no meat on his fingers. They don't even have the end of the world to blame this shit on. Place is just crazy.

"He's dead now. He... he was a monster though. A terrible, horrible person." She shudders again. It makes him wonder if this guy was the one that put that fear in her that folks like him can recognize easy as breathing. That wariness he's lived with all his life. He won't ask though. Not his place to pry.

"Well, Joff sounds like a name for a stuck-up sumbitch." Some sort of country club type. All rich and snooty. He can tell by her little smile that he might not be too far off base.

They're walking in silence one day when she asks him a question right out of the blue that throws him hard. "Did you get along with your brother?"

"Why?" He isn't going to dig up that shit if she's just curious. No fucking way.

"I'm-- I'm worried. The brother we're travelling to, we weren't close. I'm only his half-sister and my mother didn't approve of him being raised with us because he was a bastard. I was the only one of our siblings who really followed her example and was distant to him. Not-- Not cruel. But distant, like Mother wanted. It wasn't appropriate for a lady to be spending time with a bastard and I cared so much about being appropriate." She sucks in a big breath. "Now, I wonder if he'll want anything to do with me."

Well, jesus. He scratches his chin. "Family's family. My brother, Merle? He weren't no good person and he weren't always real good to me, but he was my blood, you know? That meant something. We ended up on different sides for a bit, but he chose me, even when I put other people first." His throat's starting to scratch up so he stops talking before he embarrasses himself.

"Family's family," Girl echoes. "That means something. And Jon was a good person. He was. He'll help me, even if he doesn't like me."

\------

"There's something up ahead. See the smoke? That's more than one fire." Daryl halts their progress and points toward the horizon. He's right, Sansa can see a number of columns of smoke rising up, enough for perhaps a village or camp, far in the distance.

"It must be Mole's Town," she says. She hopes. Mole's Town is right in the shadow of Castle Black. Perhaps after they climb this next hill, they'll even see the Wall. 

"Mole's Town? What sorta name is that?"

"A great deal of the town is underground. It's warmer and safer, I believe." She bites her lower lip. If it is Mole's Town ahead, that means their journey is nearly at an end. "Daryl?"

"Yeah?"

"My name is Sansa. They'll know it at the Wall. It seems right I should tell you before we get there."

"Sansa, huh? You care if I still call you Girl? I'm used to it, is all." He squinting at her in the way he has, like he suspects she'll make things difficult for him.

"No, I don't mind. But--" This is difficult. She doesn't know how she'll take what she is about to say. "There are other people there who might take offense if you didn't call me 'my lady'."

He jerks backward a little in surprise, face a picture of confusion. " _Why_? You ain't my lady. Shit, I'd think most folk'd get pissed if I tried to claim any girl like that. 'This here's my lady.' _Bam_ , shotgun in the face and angry dads, you know?"

Sansa has learned to pick through all the things he says for the core meaning fairly well. "No, no. Not like that. It's a title. Is there no nobility in Georgia? Lords and Ladies?"

"Like queens and shit? No way. We're a democracy or were one once upon a time." He scratches his chin and looks up at the sky thoughtfully. "Gimme an example of how I'm 'sposed to use it then."

"Well..." She starts walking again toward the hill they must climb and he follows. "Instead of 'Thank you, Girl', you'd say 'Thank you, my lady.' Or 'My lady, would you care to join me for a walk?' 'Good afternoon, my lady.'"

He mulls that over. "So it's like a rank thing. All 'Sir, yes, sir.' Do I gotta salute?"

"No, but it might be beneficial if you learned to bow." She can't help smiling even thinking about it.

"I ain't no good at that sorta shit. Merle's the one who went Army, not me. You best be ready for me to screw it up good."

"We can hope that the fact that you're foreign will grant you some lassitude."

"Lassitude," he echoes and she suspects he doesn't know the word. But she's learned that defining things when he hasn't asked is a sure way to anger him. "So you're something important then? If people are gonna expect me to be all respectful to you and shit."

It is a difficult question to answer without sounding full of herself. And after being brought as low as she has been, she doesn't feel particularly important or have much confidence in being treated as such. "I-- I was, once."

\------

Girl's been talking about this 'Wall' for most of their trip North, but he wasn't expecting the thing to be so fucking huge. It's like if the Great Wall of fucking China and a skyscraper fucked and had a kid. He has to keep looking up at it as they approach the castle to make sure he isn't seeing things.

The gate into the castle is closed and there's two guys standing guard in front of it, with another two up top pointing crossbows at him and Girl. Sansa. Whatever. His fingers itch to point his right back at them, but it's four against one and he doesn't want to rile them.

"What business do you have at Castle Black?" One of them calls out.

Girl steps forward. "I am seeking Jon Snow."

All four of the men shift uneasily and that makes Daryl feel pretty uneasy himself. "Wait and we will see if you can come in," one of the ones on the ground says and then throws a glance up at a crossbowman, who disappears from his perch. Likely, he's gone to talk to a higher up type.

"I'm getting a bad feeling," he mutters to her.

She glances at him, looking pretty worried herself. "We have nowhere else to go." 

He thinks on that while they wait and is about to say 'fuck it' and suggest they get the hell out of there and go find some place else to be when the gates open and there's this woman standing there. She looks like some sort of movie star or something. Great body, gorgeous face, red dress that doesn't do much to hide the assets. The sort of woman that makes Daryl real uncomfortable. He definitely wishes he'd just taken Girl and fucked off now.

"Who are you, that seeks Jon Snow?" the woman asks. Her accent's nothing like most the people they've come across so far.

Girl's looking kind of pale, but when she speaks she sounds just as bossy as the red woman does. "Who is it that asks, my lady?"

The red woman smiles at that. "I am Lady Melisandre, priestess of R'hllor and advisor to Stannis Baratheon, the one true king of Westeros."

"And why does a priestess of R'hllor speak for the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"

"Lord Snow has died."

Girl sucks in a sharp breath and Daryl feels a sharp stab of pity for her. That guy was her only family and now she's got nothing, just like him. She takes a minute to collect herself and still her voice doesn't shake when she talks. "Then I have no business here. Thank you, my lady. I apologize for taking up your time."

"A moment, please." The red woman strides forward and Daryl reaches for his hunting knife, just to be ready, just in case. "I think I know your identity, my lady," she says, voice quiet enough that the guards behind her won't hear. "If I'm correct, I have need of you and so does your brother."

He watches Girl swallow hard. "You said. You said he was dead."

"I said he died. He lives again, but is... much changed. I--"

"Oh _hell_ no," he interrupts. Fucking walkers. He should have know he's never going to get away from this shit. "If the dead don't stay dead, it ain't nothing but trouble."

The woman looks at him like she hadn't noticed him until now. Her eyebrows knit and she seems kind of confused about him. "You are a stranger here," she says slowly.

"Well, yeah. Tell me something I don't know. C'mon, Girl. We gotta get outta here before your brother turns the whole damn place to walkers." He grabs Girl's arm, ready to drag her away.

"Daryl, please. I want to hear about Jon." She turns those big blue eyes of hers on him and he's screwed. He sure as hell hopes that her dead brother's locked up tight somewhere.

"I think you can help him, Lady Sansa. R'hllor has brought you here with a purpose."

She's looking at him again, all pleading and he groans. _Blood is blood._ He knows it. She won't have any peace until she sees her brother for herself. And then he'll put a bolt right between his eyes for her.

\------

She knows that Daryl doesn't like entering Castle Black one bit. He is extremely vigilant, eyes darting everywhere as they cross the yard, a hand at the knife in his belt the entire time. Sansa doesn't know exactly what he's expecting, but it seems as though some horror from his past was triggered by Lady Melisandre's words and he is waiting for an attack.

He insists on going in before her when they enter a building and again when Lady Melisandre leads them down into a cold cellar. There is a rattle of chains and sounds of movement as they walk past food stores deeper into the dim light. "Fuck this," he mutters and pulls his crossbow from his back, drawing back the cord and nocking a bolt.

"Here. Mind you stay beyond the reach of the chain," Lady Melisandre cautions and makes an odd gesture. A torch ten feet or so away lights itself somehow and before Sansa can contemplate that, she sees Jon.

He is the source of the rattling chain, there is a shackle around one of his ankles that attaches to a wooden support column. He is crouched on the ground, shirtless and a growl erupts from his chest. In the torchlight, his eyes look red, but surely that cannot be.

"Jesus fucking christ," Daryl mutters beside her and adjusts the grip on his crossbow. The sound of his voice seems to incite Jon and he lunges toward them with a snarl. Daryl steps between him and Sansa immediately, but the chain keeps Jon from reaching them. "What in the fucking hell is with this red eyed sumbitch?" he asks. "He ain't no walker. Moves too fast. Ain't even rotted."

"He is alive. Reborn by the grace of the Lord of Light," Lady Melisandre tells them, voice calm and melodious. Sansa doesn't understand how she can say something like that as though it is accepted fact.

"Yeah, well, he ain't right in the head." Jon lunges again against his chains, growling all the while.

"Lord Snow, I have brought your sister to see you. Lady Sansa." He doesn't seem to hear the priestess. Could one really call this the 'grace' of a god? To bring a man back to life so changed? So wild? But Lady Melisandre seems to think Sansa might help him somehow and she must try. He is her family and she cannot give up on him now.

Hesitantly, Sansa steps to the side from behind Daryl. "Jon?" His attention shifts to her and his eyes _are_ red. They remind her of his wolf Ghost. Perhaps that is what he is now, a wolf, not a man. "Do you know me, Jon? I'm sorry I'm not Arya, I'm sure you'd rather have her. I've been longing to see you though. We're the only ones left, you and I. I wanted... I wanted to ask your forgiveness. Jon, please. I need you to hear me so I can ask your forgiveness." She can feel the tears threatening and pushes them down. She long ago swore never to cry in front of others again.

Jon has stopped growling, at least. He watches her, head cocked to the side, nostrils flaring just slightly. She crouches down to his level and holds out a hand. She can feel Daryl stiffen beside her and knows that he'll kill Jon if Jon makes one false move. Jon doesn't lunge though, thank the gods, he only leans forward and sniffs the offered hand. His eyes dart between her face and the hand. The red is bleeding out of them now revealing the dark grey so familiar to her. 

"Jon?" she asks again. 

A look of confusion falls over his face. "...Sansa?"

From above her, she hears Lady Melisandre's very quiet sigh of relief. 

Unsure, but hopeful, Sansa smiles.


End file.
